


'Twas The Nog Before Christmas

by thor20



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast), The Adventure Zone: Amnesty (Podcast)
Genre: Candlenights, Christmas, FLUFF I SAY, Fluff, Lots of it, M/M, Snow, Snowball Fight, clerical errors, indrid has a pickup truck, leo done fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 22:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17191703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thor20/pseuds/thor20
Summary: Has Leo Tarkesian made a horrible, terrifying mistake? Depends on who you ask. The night before Christmas in Kepler, an unexpected and very large delivery brings Duck and Indrid closer than either of them thought possible. In which there are unsafe food storage practices, Leo loses a bet, there is a very competitive snowball fight, and Indrid has a pickup truck. Happy Candlenights!





	'Twas The Nog Before Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my friends' Candlenights 2018 Gift Exchange - just some soft wintry fluff to round out the holiday season. I hope you all had a great Candlenights, and have a safe, warm rest of the year! <3

“I’m sorry, man,” Duck Newton says softly behind him.

Leo feels a hand on his shoulder, but he’s so numb from the cold that he barely feels it. A cold breeze begins to blow, howling over the pavement. “These - these things happen, though, you just gotta remember that. Accidents happen.” But _how_ could this happen? And the day before Christmas, no less!

“Hell of an accident, though,” he hears Ned mutter. Aubrey elbows him.

Jesus Christ, this has to be the worst thing that has ever happened to him. Leo isn’t wearing a coat, he realizes - just as flakes of snow start to fall, landing on his bare neck and skating across his arms. He shivers and wraps his arms around himself, shoving his hands into his armpits. “Jesus,” he mutters. “I - there has to be some kind of mistake -”

* * *

**_Two weeks ago:_ **

_It was late enough that the monitor was starting to blur in front of his eyes. Leo yawned, sipped his Sleepytime tea, and squinted at the catalog again. Christmas was coming, and Lord knew the people of Kepler were gonna be stocking up on food for parties. If he got this order in on time, hopefully they’d…_

_He yawned, so hard he could feel his jaw pop. Hopefully they’d be able to get stuff sorted out for dinners. Gah. It was really gettin’ late, though. Restocking the canned foods section before closing had really taken it out of him._

_Leo sipped his tea again and opened up a couple orders for eggnog. Kepler was a pretty small town, all things considered, but damn, they were all fans of nog. ‘Specially that guy who lived out in Eastwood Campgrounds. He drank it like water during the winter. Ten crates of Mayfield, twenty cartons in each, would probably do the trick - and maybe he’d throw in a crate of that new almond-milk eggnog stuff. The Millers’ boy was lactose intolerant, and he might like to give it a try. Leo typed in the order numbers and added them to the cart. 10 crates of Mayfield, one of that almond stuff. That should tide them over for quite a while._

_He yawned again._

_Unbeknownst to him, his hand slipped and hit the zero key one more time._

* * *

Leo grimaces. Yeah. A mistake. Jeepers.

The delivery truck driver clears his throat and comes over with a clipboard, his boots crunching on the snow. “Hundred crates of eggnog for… Leo -” He stumbles over Leo’s last name. “Tark - Tar - Tarkeh -”

“Tarkesian,” Leo sighs, and steps forward. Great. “That’s me. Need me to sign?”

“Sure thing. Sure got a lot of eggnog,” the delivery man says, with an easy smile. “Y’all must be fans of it out here, huh?” Leo tries to smile back, but it feels like a pained grimace. Behind him, it sounds like Ned is trying not to laugh. Good grief. “Sorry the shipment’s so late - it’s been a busy couple of weeks… I’m gonna need you to -” There’s a loud _clank_ near the front door of the store, and the driver sighs. “Hey, Griff, watch it!”

“Sorry,” the driver’s assistant calls out. He’s wrestling with a dolly piled high with boxes, and squinting through his glasses in the morning sun. “I just - I’m havin’ a little trouble getting this up the stairs -”

“Here, no, there’s a back door,” Duck says. “I - I got this, Leo, you take care of the paperwork.” He heads over to the guy with the dolly, who pushes up his glasses and gives him a grin. The two of them disappear around the back of the building. Leo sighs and takes the clipboard from the driver, scribbling his signature on the line.

“Y’all havin’ a good holiday season?” the driver says.

“Sure are,” Leo says tightly.

“That’s great!”

“Yep.” Leo scans the receipt one more time. Yep, there it is - 100 crates of Mayfield eggnog, order placed by Leo Tarkesian on December 15th at 11:44 p.m. Jesus Christ, he really goobered this up. It might be time to get a new keyboard.

“Thinkin’ I might take my baby girls up here to go skiing,” the delivery driver says fondly, glancing around. “Nice place, Kepler. Little mountain town like this must be pretty peaceful, right?” Aubrey clears her throat quietly, and Ned elbows her. Leo casts his eyes at the gap in the Kepler skyline where the Pizza Hut sign used to be, and sighs again. “Heard you got good slopes up here, anyway.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Leo says, passing the clipboard back. He gives the delivery truck a baleful look; man, the boxes are really piled up in there. He could build a fort out of ‘em if he wanted to. “Think that about does it. You need any help unloadin’, or -?”

“Griff and I can handle it,” the driver says. “But if y’all wanna - y’know, pitch in, that’d really help us out a lot…”

“Duck and Aubrey would be glad to help,” Ned says cheerfully.

“So is Ned,” Aubrey says, just as cheerfully, and gives Ned a shit-eating grin. Ned scowls at her.

The delivery man claps his hands together and grins. “Great! Thank y’all so much, I really appreciate it,” he says. “I got a couple spare dollies in the back - just tell me where to put ‘em, and we can get started!”

He heads back to the delivery truck, wedged into a parking space in front of Leo’s store, with a slight spring in his step. Leo watches him go, something like dread settling into his gut. “Sweet baby Jesus sleepin’ in a manger,” he mutters, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “This is - _ugh.”_

“Well, ‘tis the season,” he hears Aubrey say. Ned cackles. Leo gritted his teeth. “But jeez, Leo, I - this sucks, man. You got a place to put all of this nog?” Griff and Duck come back around the side of the building with the empty dolly, making small talk about something that Leo can’t quite make out. Griff takes one look at the truck full of eggnog and wilts just a bit. Leo does some quick math in his head and nearly wilts, too - a hundred crates of eggnog, with 20 quart cartons in each… good God, this was one hell of a fuck-up.

The cold wind comes back, roaring down the street and nearly snatching away Duck’s hat. Leo looks at the sky, at the snowflakes drifting down, and slowly nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Hm. I got an idea.”

“Leo -”

“Gimme a hot sec.”

* * *

The radio crackles softly on the countertop.

_“...That was Leroy Anderson’s ‘Sleigh Ride,’ closin’ out the hour and takin’ us over to 4:00 on this wonderful Christmas Eve… hope y’all are havin’ a good afternoon so far. Snow’s startin’ to come down out there, so… make sure you got some logs in the fireplace and a nice big mug of cocoa to tide you over, for what’s shapin’ up to be a nice white Christmas. Weathermen say we’re supposed to get a couple of feet at least. And -_

_“Oh. Huh. I just - got an email here from Leo Tarkesian, down at the General Store - thanks, Leo… Hoo, wee! Alrighty, Kepler, if any of y’all are fans of eggnog, there’s a special sale goin’ down this afternoon at Leo’s! He didn’t give me a - a catchy name for it, but I’m gonna go ahead and call it the ‘Leo Ordered Too Much Eggnog’ sale, because that’s what he’s gone and done. We got a great-looking sale on our hands, folks: fifty cents for a one-quart carton, eight bucks for a box of twenty. Get your nog on, folks! Again: that’s fifty cents a quart, and eight bucks for a box of twenty. Happy holidays, Kepler! I know I’d wanna run down and snap some of that nog up ‘fore it’s gone._

_“Alright… next up, we’re kickin’ off the top of the hour on WKPE, with George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’’...”_

A hand reaches out and turns the radio down, then off.

* * *

A half an hour passes, and Duck can already see cars coming up Main Street. “That was a hell of an idea you had goin’ there, Leo,” he says to his neighbor, hands on hips.

From behind the stacked-up wall of eggnog boxes, Leo gives him a sharp grin. “Thanks, Duck,” the older man says. “In my line of work, you gotta keep on your toes, huh?” He nudges the old cash register away from the edge of the table and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He’s beaming. It’s good to see that he’s making the best of a bad situation; ordering ten times as much eggnog is really going to put a dent in his budget. At least it’s not going to waste. Leo’d never do that - not a single thing that goes into Leo’s store is thrown out, when it can still be used - but Duck would hate to see all that nog go bad.

He opens his mouth, pauses, and closes it again. “Leo,” he begins.

Leo holds up a hand and says, “One sec, Duck. Hey, g’morning,” he says to the first people to step up. A line is starting to form. Jesus, Duck didn’t even know there were this many people in Kepler. “You here for the eggnog sale?” In the store, Ned is listening to the radio and talking to Aubrey, though Duck can’t quite tell what he’s saying through the window. Aubrey is tapping her bottom lip and staring pensively at a jar full of markers.

“You sure you’re gonna be able to clear all of ‘em out?”

Leo shrugs and tears open a box, handing a couple of eggnog cartons to the first people in line with a smile. “We’ll see,” he says vaguely. “Here’s hopin’ we can. Besides - this time of year, I always got a couple of real big customers…”

And he lifts his hand and points across the parking lot, to a truck pulling in that’s piled so high with snow that it looks like a sentient hill. The windshields and windows are the only things that’ve been cleared off, and Duck can’t make out who’s inside it. He cringes. God, that’s a hell of a safety hazard. The truck skids across the parking lot and pulls into a parking space near the front of the store; a chunk of snow breaks off the three-foot-high mound on the top and hits the ground. Snow skitters across the pavement.

“There he is,” Leo says fondly. “Here, mind takin’ this to the other end of the table?” He taps one of the boxes next to him; Duck grabs it and picks it up. “God, all that piled-up snow is a safety hazard.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” Duck says. A bell jingles behind them; Duck turns and sees Aubrey and Ned coming out of the store, Aubrey proudly holding aloft a sign that reads _Leo Bought Too Much Nog Sale._ Ned is trying and failing not to laugh.

“We gotta - hey, how you doin’?” Leo says, to the next folks in line. “Sixteen dollars for ya - thanks, Mags, have a good one! Hey, Duck?”

“Mm?” Duck picks up the box.

“Would you mind settin’ aside… oh, I dunno, five or six boxes for our esteemed guest over there?”

And Duck hears feet crunching on snow, and turns just in time to see Indrid Cold come around the side of the truck. He’s spinning a braided lanyard with some keys attached around his finger, and cheerfully whistling “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” between his teeth, and Duck is so stunned to see Indrid outside and in the light of day that he -

“Don’t drop the nog,” Indrid says.

Duck swallows and, at the last minute, tightens his hold on the box. The other man unwinds the lanyard from around his fingers, the keys rocketing around at light speed, and lets them fly up into the air. He catches them with one hand and says, “I heard there was a sale?”

Duck’s mouth is hanging open. Somehow, seeing Indrid out and about feels wrong, and yet right - a thrilling kind of wrongness, as if he’s seeing something forbidden and unique. Indrid seems like a permanent fixture of the Eastwood Campgrounds and the campgrounds alone, removed and separate from the world; this is evidence that he is actually a real living person, and that sends a strange thrill up Duck’s spine that he can’t quite understand.

“Sure is,” Leo says. “Good to see you, Mr. Cold - figured you’d stop by.”

Indrid waves at Leo - he’s wearing old leather driving gloves, which is… interesting. “Of course, wouldn’t miss it,” he says, grinning. He reaches into the pocket of his parka - he’s got the hood down, and his longish hair moves slightly in the cold wind - and pulls out his wallet. “Seven boxes, my dude.”

Leo blinks. “Seven -”

“Boxes? I said what I said, hand ‘em over.” Indrid counts out sixty dollars and passes them over to Leo; Leo shrugs and puts them in the register, handing him his change. “You’re not exactly in short supply here.”

“Sure, sure,” Leo says. “You need any help?”

And something strange happens. Indrid swallows and his eyes go slightly out of focus, and he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He exhales, and the air before him fogs. Duck almost wants to ask if Indrid’s alright but something stops him.

Then Indrid laughs softly and scratches his nose, and gives Duck a soft look through his glasses that makes his throat close up a little. “Yeah,” he says. “I might.”

There is a ten second-long pause.

“Uh,” says Duck.

“Seven boxes is quite a lot,” Indrid says. “I’d - I don’t quite have the core strength to lift all those boxes -”

Leo begins, “That’s not what you -”

Indrid lifts a finger. The leather of his gloves squeaks. “By myself,” he finishes. “Duck, I’d really appreciate a hand with ‘em, if you wouldn’t mind?”

The box of nog is really starting to weigh on Duck’s arms. Duck shifts it onto one hip, feeling an awful lot like he’s missing the punchline of a joke, and sighs. “Yeah, sure, buddy,” he says.

“Jesus,” Leo mutters behind him. He opens the cash register and rifles through some of the bills. “Have a nice day, Indrid,” he says flatly, and counts out two tens. The customer in front of him gives him a vaguely panicked look.

“You too,” Indrid says, with a toothy grin, and heads back to his snow-mounded truck, spinning his keys around his fingers again. Leo mutters something to the customer and walks towards Ned and Aubrey, who look... surprisingly cheerful about something. Leo gives them each a ten dollar bill and turns his back on them, as Audrey and Ned high-five. Duck sighs, shifts the box in his arms, and follows Indrid. He doesn’t want to know. Plausible deniability.

When they get to the truck, Indrid unlocks it with his keys; Duck is surprised to see that it’s - well, actually Indrid’s. “I never knew you had a truck,” he says, waiting for Indrid to pop open the tailgate.

“Of course,” Indrid says. The tailgate falls open and smacks the bumper, sending a fine mist of snow flying through the air. “I can’t drive my Winnebago everywhere, after all. Not the most maneuverable thing. Four-wheel drive comes in handy. If I have to go anywhere, I just tow it behind.”

“Right.”

“The last snowstorm - around the first time you all came over - kind of buried it, so -”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Duck says, giving the massive drift of snow piled on the roof a meaningful look. “Man, you should’ve cleaned that off before you drove on over. If that came slidin’ off, it could’ve hit someone, or smashed in their windshield.”

Indrid grimaces. “Hm. Sorry, I didn’t think of that,” he says.

“Nah, don’t worry. Just - watch it next time, okay, bud?” Duck sets the box down in the bed of the truck and gently elbows Indrid in the ribs. “I’d hate to have to write you up for it.”

Indrid laughs and pushes his glasses up. “That’s not even your job, Duck,” he says. “C’mon, help me with the other six boxes -”

“Help? You haven’t done anything -”

Indrid shakes his head - and then suddenly he’s vaulted up into the bed of the truck, his worn snow boots leaving deep prints in the drifted snow. He carefully walks towards the cab and starts shoveling the snow piled on top with his hands. “I’ll take care of this, you get the boxes,” he says.

The snow slides off in big wet clumps, mostly piling into the truck bed, and onto the hood of the sedan parked next to them. Duck takes a deep breath and sighs, “Alright,” and goes to get the rest of the nog. Aubrey and Ned - still standing by the sign that Aubrey made - wave at him. They seem to have found Styrofoam cups of hot cocoa somewhere. Ned lifts his in a mock toast; Duck smiles blandly back at him and keeps grabbing boxes.

“Have a good one, Leo,” he says wearily, once the last box of nog is loaded into Indrid’s truck.

“You too, Duck,” Leo says. He’s got a bit of a tired look in his eyes - a bit grumpy, too - but not one that Duck would be able to pin on the customers or the cold.

“Hey, uh - what happened to those twenty bucks?”

“See you ‘round, Duck.”

Alright. Duck gives a brief wave to the line of people waiting to buy nog - it’s starting to thin out, but still coming strong - and heads back over to Indrid’s truck. The windows are fogged up a bit, and the engine lets out a constant low rumble. The thing is old, probably older than Duck himself, and Duck has to admit that he’s kind of into that. He’s about to walk over to the driver’s side of the truck when the passenger’s side window rolls down.

Indrid’s not inside.

Then Duck sees the top of Indrid’s head rise up, and the rest of him comes into view. He was lying flat against the seat to reach the passenger door; the truck’s so old that its windows have manual cranks. “Hey, Duck,” the man says slowly. “Can I… ask you a favor, by any chance?”

“Uh. I mean, yeah?”

Indrid grimaces apologetically. “Would you mind coming back to my place and helping me unload these?” he says. “I… it’s a lot. Didn’t expect to be taking home quite this much.”

Duck feels his eyebrows creep up. “I’d’ve thought you’d’ve seen this coming,” he says slowly.

“I didn’t.”

“Well. Okay, then.” Duck adjusts his hat on his head and pulls open the side door.

* * *

Indrid drives in a horribly dangerous way - cocky, almost lackadaisical, and it clashes so much with his cool and collected exterior that it makes Duck’s mind want to implode. He steers with only one hand, with his free arm propped on the window, and one long leg hiked up onto the driver’s seat so his knee is pressed nearly to his chest. He is physically incapable of sitting in anything properly, and Jesus, this is _horrible_ driving behavior - Duck is convinced, as they head out of town, that they’re going to crash into something. That kind of posture would be okay if the truck was parked, but not while they’re fuckin’ driving on a snowy road -

“I’m not going to crash,” Indrid says, drumming his fingers on the wheel. And he’s wearing leather gloves; Christ almighty, Duck forgot about that. “Foresight comes in handy sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Duck says. “I’m - I bet it does, yeah. Uh -” They hit a bump, and one of the eggnog boxes in the back smacks against the side of the truck. They both look at each other and wince. “So - you got a plan to store all this?”

“Perhaps,” Indrid says, hooking a left into the Eastwood Campgrounds. Duck opens his mouth. “Yes, I forgot to use my turn signal. The nearest driver is a little over three quarters of a mile behind us.”

“Oh, alright then.”

“You always use your turn signals?” Indrid says.

This feels like a trap. Despite that, Duck says, “Yeah.”

“Incredible,” Indrid says, grinning at him. “You must be the last of your kind, Duck.” And even though Duck knows he’s being made fun of, kind of, he smiles back.

They pull into the empty campground that, as always, is empty save for Indrid’s Winnebago, nestled between some trees in the far side of the clearing. The snow is coming down now in big fat flakes, and Duck finds himself staring at the edges of each flake as they cluster on the windshield. He searches for the sharp spikes of branching frost, and relaxes just a bit when he sees them - not the soft, totally out-of-season cottonwood fluff -

“Hey.”

Duck flinches and looks over. Indrid’s turned the truck off and faces him, now, one hand still on the keys. “You okay?” he says quietly.

Duck swallows and nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Just. Thinking. They said it was gonna snow like hell tonight.” Indrid nods pensively and gazes out the windshield, at the flakes already starting to cake on the glass. Soon enough, the truck is going to be coated with them. Duck wonders if they’d be able to just leave the boxes in the bed of the truck and call it a day, if the snow’s going to cover it -

Indrid pulls the keys out of the ignition. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, what -”

He opens the door, and a handful of snowflakes drift in, skittering across the seats. Indrid hops out and lands on the snow with a _crunch,_ adjusting his parka as he stands up. He looks over his shoulder at Duck with a faint smile, and Duck can see the snowflakes starting to crust on his hair and the edges of his glasses. “There is no way in hell that I’m going to be able to cram seventy individual quarts of eggnog into my fridge,” Indrid says. “But it’s supposed to snow tonight.”

“Uh huh…”

“And I found these gloves,” Indrid says, flexing his hands - and Jesus Christ, his fingers are long, “under my bed yesterday. I’m all bundled up. Perhaps we can - well, store the boxes outside in the snow, and that can keep them fresh for a bit longer.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Can’t we just leave ‘em in the bed of the truck?” says Duck.

“Don’t you want to build a snow fort?” says Indrid.

They look at each other for a bit longer. Duck takes a deep breath, sighs, and looks at the snowdrifts piled around Indrid’s camper. This doesn’t feel like a great idea. But Indrid is humming “It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas” under his breath and bouncing on the balls of his feet, like a kid eagerly waiting to get dessert at Christmas dinner, and the snow drifting down around him looks - hell, almost magical, and something in Duck’s chest tells him that he can’t let this go.

Duck returns Indrid’s smile and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Hell yeah,” he says, and Indrid’s grin widens.

* * *

They start by finding one of the bigger snowdrifts behind Indrid’s camper. The way the snow is piled up between the trees makes Duck feel like he’s entered a cave. He sets the first box of nog down in the small space between the camper and the trees, stands up straight, and looks back at Indrid. “Okay,” he says. “What’s the game plan?”

Indrid taps his chin and looks thoughtfully at the ground. “How about - layers?” he says. He gestures vaguely at the box. “Stack them up with snow between them?”

“Won’t that make the boxes soggy?” Indrid reaches for a panel in the side of the Winnebago and yanks it open, pulling out three or four large plastic tarps. “Never mind. That works.”

Duck stacks the rest of the boxes against the side of the camper, while Indrid covers them with tarps and layers snow between them, like the world’s most disgusting cake. This whole thing is probably ridiculously unsafe, and if Leo saw this he’d give them all a stern talking-to about food safety, but it’s supposed to freeze tonight. And the snow is still coming down; the world is enveloped in a cool, silent hush, as if someone has turned the volume down on a staticky radio. The only sound is Indrid softly humming Christmas carols under his breath - which is a sound that Duck could listen to all day.

Indrid pushes some snow onto the last layer, just before Duck puts the last box on top, and presses it down, his eyes going vaguely unfocused. He drums his fingers on the snow. “Hm,” he says.

“What?”

Then Indrid slowly bends down and picks up another clump of wet snow; Duck feels a strange sense of foreboding. “Nothing,” Indrid says.

“Bullshit, what do you - hey!” Duck yelps and raises both hands to cover his head, as Indrid lobs the whole clump of snow at him. Bits of wet snow hit his neck, and he shivers. “Jesus, that’s not even - that wasn’t even a fuckin’ snowball!”

“Really?”

Another clump of snow, shaped more like a ball than the rest, smacks him right in the stomach. Duck scowls through his fingers at Indrid, as the other man wheezes with laughter. “Oh, it’s on,” he says, bending down to grab some snow.

Indrid throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the trees - and Duck throws the loose snow right at his throat. He chokes.

From there, it’s a blur of hard-packed snow and crazed laughter. Duck can feel himself getting tired almost right away - he’s not young, that’s for sure - but some kind of wild glee is pounding through his veins, and he can’t help but let it fill him. Indrid’s running around like a man possessed, laughing more than Duck has ever heard him laugh; he scoops up snow and lobs it at Duck with surprising accuracy and speed, and Duck takes a hell of a lot of hits. But they’re having fun, damn it: it’s the night before Christmas, and they’re alive and well and having a snowball fight, and this is the happiest Duck has felt in weeks. God, he needed this.

Duck skids around the back of the pickup truck and peers around it; Indrid is scooping up more handfuls of snow and shaping them into small, hard snowballs, and Jesus, those are gonna hurt. He’s taking this seriously, huh? Duck scans the clearing and tries to come up with a plan; he knows that if he goes out from behind the truck, he’ll end up getting pounded by snowballs, but he needs ammo -

And that’s when he sees the snow piled up in the back of Indrid’s truck. “Bingo,” he whispers, and hoists himself up into the back of the truck. He starts scraping snow together to form a snowball, really making sure to pack it in good. On the other side of the cab, he can hear Indrid tramping around looking for him.

He launches to his feet. Indrid’s right in front of the truck, and he has a perfect shot -“Got you!” he yells, and -

Indrid grins and launches a snowball at him. So fast that he didn’t see it coming, and it surprises Duck so much that he tries to dive backwards out of the way. His foot slips on an exposed patch of metal. An incredibly undignified sound escapes him, as he falls right to the bed of the truck and hits his head on the last box of eggnog. The metal bed of the truck vibrates under him like a tolling bell.

There’s silence.

Then he hears hurried footsteps crunching through snow, and Indrid hoists himself into the bed of the truck. Damn, all the fun really bled out of this moment, didn’t it? “Jesus, Duck, are you okay?” he says worriedly, pushing up his glasses.

Shit. Duck winces and turns his head from side to side. His head doesn’t feel too good, but at least he can talk without feeling like his skull’s been set on fire. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Hurts, but I’m fine.”

Indrid nods, still looking somber and worried. “You - fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t -” He inches a bit closer, close enough to get a good look at Duck’s head; he brushes some of Duck’s hair aside, the soft leather of his gloves sliding across Duck’s skin, and grimaces. “Oof. That’s going to bruise,” he says softly.

The snow is drifting down like feathers from a thousand burst feather pillows. It gets in Duck’s eyes and starts to melt, trickling down the sides of his head. Duck clears his throat and looks up, past Indrid, at the ash-grey sky. It seems to be getting dark now - at least an hour has passed since they picked up the nog at Leo’s store.

Indrid is still sitting there, looking down at him with concern. Duck meets his eyes and smiles. Maybe he is a little concussed, because Indrid seems awfully close - closer than before - and Duck doesn’t seem to mind at all. “Hey,” he says quietly. His voice is nearly lost in the silence around them.

Indrid blinks down at him.

“I had fun, though,” Duck says, and grins. He reaches up to pat Indrid’s shoulder. “You put up a good fight.”

And he drops some snow down Indrid’s collar. Indrid lets out a garbled shriek and his entire body folds up, landing on Duck’s chest. Despite the pain in his back from hitting the truck bed so hard, Duck throws back his head and laughs. “Got you!” he cackles, patting Indrid on the back.

“Shut up,” the man mutters, looking at him with mild but fond annoyance. A snowflake falls and lands right on the tip of his nose - which is incredibly close to Duck, he realizes, close enough for him to reach out and touch. And he does, gently brushing it away. Indrid blinks at him.

“Did you see this coming?” Duck asks softly, not knowing why. Not quite realizing what he’s asking about, until it’s too late.

Indrid shakes his head. “I -” He pauses; his breath fogs the air between them. At last, he says, “Maybe.”

And Duck knows, deep down, that’s a yes. His hand is still raised from brushing away the snow on Indrid’s face, and he gently cups the back of Indrid’s head with it. Indrid nods, his eyes wide. “Okay,” he breathes.

And then Indrid ducks his head down, and they’re kissing in the back of this truck as snow drifts down around them. Duck’s head throbs against the cold metal. Indrid laces his fingers through Duck’s hair and kisses him gently, deeply, and somehow Duck knew all this time that he would taste faintly of sugar and nutmeg and crisp mountain air. That feeling of warmth spreading through him, like he’s just slammed back a glass of hot cocoa, is nearly intoxicating. It feels like - like he’s come home, in a way. It feels right.

They pause for breath, and Indrid lifts his head. His glasses are fogged up a bit. “Well,” Duck says. “Merry Christmas, I guess.”

Indrid laughs softly and lets his head drop. “Want to take this inside?” he says into Duck’s shoulder; his breath is cold and wet on the skin of his neck, and Duck winces a bit. “It’ll be warmer in there when I get the heaters going.”

“Yeah,” Duck says. He swallows, and sits up. “Alright.”

Indrid vaults off the back of the truck; Duck follows a bit slower, trying not to slip on the metal, and follows Indrid into the camper, one hand on the small of his back. The last box of eggnog sits abandoned in the bed of the truck, along with Duck’s hat. It is quickly covered with snow. Inside the Winnebago, the lights turn on.

**Author's Note:**

> SEE????? I AM CAPABLE OF WRITING FLUFF! IT HAPPENS! 
> 
> i hope yall liked this one! thanks for reading!


End file.
